blue
by Sweet Valentine
Summary: You still burn from where his kiss scorched you; your lips feel heavy and your chest, even heavier...You’re gonna carry that weight. The aftermath of RFB; concerning Spike. Spoilers and rated for language.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights or characters of Cowboy Bebop.**

**An experimental fic. Because those are so much fun to write. **

**Blue**

There is a brisk chill in the air that stings your face and clings to your cheeks as you make your way through the darkened Martian streets. The air is unnaturally still, unusually quiet, the kind of unsettling silence that buries itself deep in your bones, lodges itself in your brain and taunts you with its whispers of nothingness. You shiver, and your muscles tense, wary, prepared for anything. You live on Mars, after all; the breeding ground of Syndicate thugs. You're a sensible girl, and you know what comes with living in such territory. You do a damn good job of staying out of trouble, because you don't go _looking_ for it.

Still, you begin chastising yourself for going out so late, and all on your lonesome too; sure, all you needed was to stop at the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner (cheese and bread for grilled sandwiches, and some tomato soup too – you live a simple life), but now you're beginning to think maybe you should have at least enlisted that cute new neighbor boy of yours to accompany you – there's something in the air tonight, a gloom that permeates the atmosphere, and it feels a little like…

You don't know what exactly it feels like. But it doesn't feel _right._

You spur yourself forward quicker, one step in front of the other, brisk, brisk. You're only a few blocks away from your apartment, your empty, lonely apartment that's inhabited by only you and a cat. A dying cat, too. Sure, it's a little depressing, but it's something, right?

You're approaching the old cathedral now, the one that's run down; you heard that a few months back some Syndicate thugs aired their dirty laundry there, so to speak; no one ever did get around to replacing the stained glass. A shame really – you remember as a girl attending that church, and though you were never really religious or bought into that whole spirituality deal, you nonetheless could appreciate aesthetics.

You pass without stopping.

As you amble along the dimly lit street, you can feel the air change; it gets thicker, hotter and stickier, and an acrid smell burns your nostrils. You scrunch your nose in protest, and try to piece together what it isthat smells so foul and pungent_._ Something like a flickering of light catches your eyes, and you look up and are greeted with the sight of a building smoldering; you stop dead in your tracks, realizing it's that Syndicate building, the one you hate walking by every time you have to go and make errands but you don't have much of a choice. It's on fire, or at least it was – embers of flame lick the sides of the building, a thick plume of smoke ascends almost lazily to the sky. Your stomach churns when you see several bodies scattered on the steps leading to the oversized doors; you choke back bile when you realize that stench in the air is the sharp tang of blood and burning flesh.

You stay frozen about 20 feet from the carnage, not sure what to do. Your apartment lies beyond the building, and the only way home is to walk on by, but you're no idiot; you know full well that approaching could mean certain and horrible death, especially if there is a war between Syndicates. You wait there, uncertain, listening for something, _anything_, like the sound of men and war and guns. You are greeted with nothing but that same unnerving silence that has haunted you all night long. Whatever happened here must be over now, you think (and hope). Hesitantly, you put one foot forward, then another, and soon you are carefully creeping by.

You have no intention of stopping, but as you are passing you see through the doorframe (there is no door anymore; must have been blown away), and see…nothing. Not a single person. And though you originally had every intention of walking away, you find yourself a little disoriented when you realize that mid-step you must have changed course and _walked into the building_.

There are a few bodies scattered, here and there, and a smattering of blood pooling on the floor. Something in your stomach clenches, and you think perhaps you should call someone, the ISSP, and you dig into your purse to find your comm., but stop when you see a lone figure facedown on the stairs. Your insides feel frozen all of a sudden, as if your stomach turned into a block ice and then the chill crept up your esophagus and wrapped its brittle fingers around your throat, choking you. You notice that the person – body – has a shock of fuzzy green hair, unlike you've ever seen before; you also notice that unlike all the other bodies, whom are clad in fancy blue suits, this corpse is dressed more like a civilian.

You also notice the slight rise of its back – and holy shit, you realize it must still be breathing.

Unthinkingly, you drop your grocery bag to the concrete floor, not registering the loud thunk that your can of tomato soup makes as it hits the stone, and start racing toward the body. You are totally and completely crazy, a voice whispers in the back of your mind, completely _fucking crazy_. You are in a fucking Syndicate building, surrounded by fucking _corpses_, what the fuck are you doing? Nevertheless, you make your way over to the green-haired…man, it looks like. You kneel down and put your fingers to the vein in his neck, find the faintest of pulses still thrumming there. As gingerly as possible, you take him by the shoulders and lift, try turning him face up, on his back. He's covered in blood, riddled with bullets; red is steeped into his hair and trailing down his face, covering his left eye. His breathing is shallow, hoarse, and you try to shake him awake, unsure of what exactly the hell you should do.

"Hey…" the word sticks in your mouth, and you try to clear your throat. "Hey…can you hear me?" _Are you all right?_ You think about saying it, but realize that it's a fucking ridiculous thing to say, because holy _hell_, _look at all the bullet holes._

Slowly, almost agonizingly slow, he opens his eyes; reddish-brown, almost garnet orbs stare up at you, and your breath hitches in your chest. He stares at you blankly and whatever words you could have prepared to say die on your tongue.

The man is moving his lips now, but no sound is coming out; instead, its like a puff of air, weak and hardly there and all, and you lean all the way down to try and make it out.

"Julia."

You frown, your brows furrowing. Is he asking for someone? It doesn't seem like a question, though. His lips move again. He raises an injured, bloodstained hand to cup your face, and you feel a pang somewhere around where your heart is; he's hallucinating, he must be, you realize.

_You're_ 'Julia'.

…Except you're not.

His hand gently sweeps across your cheek, smearing the blood across your skin, and tangles into your unruly dark gold curls, tingeing them red. His mouth keeps moving in that same pattern, near-whispering that mantra.

"Julia. Julia."

Hesitantly, you raise your hand to hold his against your head; your lips bend sorrowfully. Your name isn't Julia; rather, your moniker is comprised of a cacophony of consonants and vowels that would sound nowhere near as sweet on his lips as the name he utters now. You could correct him, tell him your real name, but what would it matter? What would it _accomplish_? He's dying, and he thinks you're someone else; someone he likely loved, and who are you to take that from him? Would it not be merciful to go along, play the charade and let him die thinking that you are his Julia?

"I'm here."

The words spill from your lips before you even consciously think them, and for a second, you regret what you've done; desperately hope that you've done the right thing.

The man smiles, not a lot, but just enough to make your heart flutter for a second; he's pretty handsome, despite the paleness of his complexion due to lack of blood. You really like his eyes, and then for a second, you bite down on your lip and have to fight back tears, angry at yourself, because here a handsome man is dying in your arms, and you are selfish enough to be thinking about missed opportunities and unfulfilled memories; you are ashamed that while he's dying _you_ had the audacity to lament about the fact that you never met him while he was alive and healthy so you would…what? Get his phone number? Never mind the fact that there's another woman's name lingering on his lips.

What the fuck is wrong with you? You seriously regret your decision to leave home tonight.

And all because you wanted a fucking grilled cheese sandwich.

He's become awfully still now, and you check his pulse again to see if he's died on you – no, it's still there, beating so weakly you press a little too hard to make sure you aren't just imagining it. That small half-smile is still there, but his eyes have gone a little fuzzy. Without really thinking, you smooth the blood away from his face with your free hand (the other still holding his against your hair), and he stirs a little. Looks directly into your eyes, and you swear that little smile of his grows just a bit. You continue to sit with him, idly stroking his face, his hair, not really caring that your legs are beginning to go numb from kneeling on the cold concrete steps. You don't even know how long you've been sitting there for, but for some reason, you decide it doesn't really matter; this is all so fucking surreal, you're beginning to think…

"It's all just a dream," you speak aloud, not really to him, too soft to be for him. He hears you anyway, and shocks you by replying.

"Yeah." And then he laughs, not heartily, rather, meekly and pathetically, before coughing up blood. You grasp him tighter, willing him to stop, to get better, and after a few seconds, he does. 

_Thank God. _

You almost want to laugh at the irony; perhaps you _should_ have stopped at the church on your way home. You sure are doing your share of praying tonight.

His eyes are locked on yours again, those unnerving eyes; you hadn't noticed they were two different colors before. They are so…interesting. Captivating. You really don't know what it is about them, but they've drawn you in and got you under some sort of spell that you really just don't know how to shake.

He uses the hand that's buried in your hair to pull your face closer to his; you can see that whispered "Julia" on his lips again, think that maybe if you could actually hear him say it, make a noise, it'd be like a melody. And then his lips meet yours, not really a kiss, but more a pressing of skin on skin; you can feel the desperation radiating from him, how he wants this kiss _so badly_.

Something stirs within you, and you grant the dying man his request. You kiss him back, gently but passionately; _fuck_, you pour your entire soul into it, feel a tear trail down your cheek because you know that when you pull away, he's going to take a little part of you with him and it will be lost forever. Even before your lips part from his, you can feel it – he's dead.

You straighten, look down at his face and see that his eyes are now closed, his cheek cold beneath yours; it must have been cold this entire time, but his skin now radiates the chill, and a shiver runs along your spine and settles into your bones. You begin to pull away, but before rising to your feet, you take him by the shoulders and turn him facedown again, just like you found it. There, now it's like you were never here, and no one will ever know. It's a foolish thought, because no one was really there to know in the first place.

Besides, _you'll_ always know.

You can't bear to look at him anymore and so turn away, but the memory of his face still burns in your mind. And to think you didn't even know his name.

You descend the staircase slowly, stop to pick up your grocery bag, and exit the building to find that when you get outside, dawn is breaking. You spent the whole night with that man? It only felt like a few minutes. It didn't feel long enough at all. You watch the sun as it creeps along, lighting the streets and the buildings, and swear that you've never seen a bluer sky.

A sigh escapes your lips, coming deep from the bottom of your lungs. Despite the exhalation, you don't feel like you've let go of anything. Instead, you can't help but wonder: if as _you_ were losing a piece of yourself while you were kissing _him_, did _he _lose a piece to _you_? Did you _gain_ a part of him? It feels like you have; feels like there is a load on your heart, a painful, burdensome load right underneath your breast.

You are covered in his blood, and it makes you feel heavy; every step you take is leaden and cumbersome. You still burn from where his kiss scorched you; your lips feel heavy and your chest, even heavier.

You're gonna carry that weight.

**AN: I am disappointed with myself for writing this, because I think the ending of CB is the most perfect moment in the show's history…in the history of MOST television shows/stories. But nevertheless, I could not keep myself from writing it.**

**Why did I write about Spike's death through the filter of an unidentified OC? Well, because a small part of me is still crying that Spike died alone (well, that he died at all, really…). Even though that moment was so perfect, I wanted to explore the scene from a different angle – an angle that no one else has explored it from either. My only goal for this story is that I hope I've achieved that.**

**I tried to weave a bunch of different elements into this story…the lyrics and title from "Blue" (the song Spike dies to), references to cats, references to the church, purposefully writing the POV so that at times it feels a little like the speaker is Jet, or Ed, or Faye; and, like my OC's complying with Spike's "request" and pouring her soul into it, I've really tried to pour my heart into this fic…despite the fact I hate myself for it. Heh, irony. **

**Enjoy!**


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